“Speaking,” said a brusque voice.
“I’m Virgil Pardoner.”
“Yes?”
“The name isn’t Jane. It’s June.”
“Ah. I thought Mr. Forsyth said ‘June,’ but I wanted to see what you said. That’s splendid. She’s altered your letter, of course—changed the ‘u’ into ‘a.’ That was easy. And now we have got her—tight. All you’ve got to do is to trot out Miss June Townshend and, if she has any letters of yours—she probably has—to see that she brings them with her. There’s a train at——”
“She hasn’t,” yelled Virgil. “She hasn’t. I know she hasn’t.”
“Oh, but she may. Lots of women promise to destroy——”
“She can’t. I never wrote any. There’s—there’s no such woman.”
“No such what?” cried Maple.
“Woman,” said Virgil, calmly. Now that the murder was out, he felt much better. “You know. Female of man. June Townshend is a creation of my lightning brain. I also invented Stoughbridge, or whatever the rotten place is, complete with Rectory. I pictured an old-world garden, with a hammock and croquet-nets. Oh, and a bamboo cake-stand. June was there, feeding the aspodestras with crumbs of rock-cake. The letter, I may say, was written to substantiate the fantasy. It was a beautiful piece of prose. . . .”